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Thirty-Two

Madison was checking into her doctor’s office at three fifty-five—five minutes to spare. Some might say she was late. She’d say she was right on time. She didn’t even have to sit down before a nurse guided her to a room. That was a bonus, because she always cringed at the thought of sitting around a bunch of sick people with their runny noses and coughing and their kids touching everything with their sticky little fingers with no respect for boundaries.

She filled the nurse in on the purpose of the visit with the clear disclaimer that she was feeling better now but wanted to honor her appointment.

“Dr. Talmadge will be right with you,” the nurse said and left.

Posters on the wall testified to the dangers of smoking, the importance of screening for breast cancer and how to go about self-testing, and how strokes were the silent killer. There were certainly a lot of ways to leave this world. All Madison knew was she wasn’t ready to exit.

There was a knock, and the door inched open. Dr. Talmadge poked his head in, then entered the rest of the way. He closed the door behind him.

“Hello, Madison. It’s been a long time since you were in.”

“I’d say that’s a good thing. No offense.” She smiled and held up a hand.

“None taken.” Talmadge came from England, and his voice still carried the beautiful English accent. She’d been seeing him since she was a little girl; he had another practice outside of Stiles, in the small town where she grew up. He put his clipboard on the counter, next to the sink. “So, what brings you here today?”

He could easily consult the nurse’s notes, and Madison was sure he probably had, but as she liked to hear things from, say, a suspect’s lips, he liked to hear his patients confirm their maladies.

“I’m actually feeling fine now.”

He dropped onto a stool and smiled at her.

“What?” she asked.

“You’re the same every time I see you. You obviously had something that brought you to me, but you always downplay whatever it is. Just tell me what prompted you to make the appointment.”

“Fair enough. I’ve been feeling nauseous off and on for several days now. But today I was able to keep food down, and I’m much better.”

“When did the nausea start?”

She’d been trying to figure that out but couldn’t quite remember. “I’m not sure exactly, but it hung around for a few days.”

“You mentioned keeping food down. Before today, you experienced vomiting?”

“Yesterday.”

“I see.” Talmadge wrote something on the pages attached to the clipboard.

She was afraid to ask what he meant by I see. It sounded so menacing. She cleared her throat and braved speaking anyhow. “My partner, at work,” she clarified, “said that nausea can be a symptom of cancer.”

He paused writing and met her eyes. “It can be a symptom of many things.” He got off his stool. “I’d like to run some bloodwork, and we’ll go from there. That okay?”

She turned her head for that next step. She didn’t want to witness the process.

She felt the tiniest pinch—not her issue—but she’d made the mistake once of watching the vial fill with blood, swore she could feel it leaving her body. She never made that mistake again.

“All righty, all done.”

She dared to look now. Talmadge pressed a cotton ball over the pinprick and slapped on a Band-Aid. “You’re quick,” she said, appreciating that he hadn’t delegated the task to a nurse, like most doctors would have.

“I didn’t get this handsome and skilled in just a few years.” He smiled and headed toward the door.

“When should I have the results?”

“A couple days, max. I’ll call if there’s anything to worry about.”

She slipped off the examination table. “Do you think I have anything to worry about?”

Talmadge stopped next to the door, and he dipped his chin and said, “Worry is always a waste of time and energy.” He held her gaze until she nodded.

Wise words, but much harder to implement. If only he’d given her something to go on besides a dose of adage, something more clinical and scientific. Maybe even assuaged her concerns about cancer, but he hadn’t.